


agrippa

by ballantine



Series: noble consuls of rome [10]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Rome (TV 2005), Βίοι Παράλληλοι - Πλούταρχος | Parallel Lives - Plutarch
Genre: M/M, Philippics, Riots, Roman Senate, Speeches, s.h.t.f., the tent revival cult of divus julius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: When judging the potential of any man, always look to those who stand at his side.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Series: noble consuls of rome [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730350
Comments: 28
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**I. December:** **_quo iure?_ **  
  


The cold air flowing through the window carried with it the shouts and clamor of the crowds. He kept imagining he smelled a hint of smoke, which made his heart give a hard thump against his rib cage. The city was a pile of kindling waiting to be spark-struck-blown on any given day; during a riot the usual guards would be distracted. There was likely no one available to mount a coordinated response to a fire. A lot of people might die.

He hoped his man on the street knew what he was doing.

He thought he should really have learned how to pace at some point. Anything to release some of the tension building up in his limbs. But he'd always been too still; his mother used to tell him he barely crawled months after learning how. She said he would sit and watch everyone in the room for hours, and she occasionally checked to make sure he was still breathing.

Since he didn't pace, he stood at the window as the afternoon slid into evening. He stood and watched the darkening sky for the telltale glow of embers.

Darkness had fully fallen by the time the door across the room unlatched with a click and opened. He turned immediately to face the visitor – his fists balled tight at his sides, for he had no other weapon at his disposal.

But then he paused.

“I expected another,” said Agrippa. He did not add the rest: I expected a knife to the throat.

“Everyone else is otherwise occupied, quelling the unrest in the streets. I'm sure you've heard it,” said Brutus, nodding to the window at his back. “So I'm afraid you will have to deal with me.”

He smiled at Agrippa, who did not smile back. Despite the other man's easy, cordial manner, he was not relieved by this turn. A guard or torturer, he was prepared for; they, he understood, as any man with a blade understands another. But Brutus was a figure unknown to him and therefore much more dangerous.

“Please,” said the consul, indicating the chair Agrippa had ignored for the past two hours. “Sit.”

It was not a request. Agrippa hesitated, but in the end the more pressing danger lay in front of him, not behind though the window, on the streets he could not reach. He sat. And his knees ached faintly from his long vigil.

They looked at one another.

Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger was not someone he had ever imagined himself meeting face-to-face. This moment, this meeting, was not meant for him but for Octavian. He had no confidence that he would get it right. He tried to assess his opponent, as he would on a proper battlefield.

Brutus was an unassuming figure, relaxed in the chair across from him, hands folded in his lap. His features were noble but the lines on his face gave him away. There was a hardness indelibly engraved around his mouth. Still, it was an effort to remember as Agrippa looked at him: this man casually ordered the murder of his oldest friend and mentor.

The real thing about Brutus that made him nervous: no one knew what he wanted, only that he would do anything to get it.

Brutus brushed an invisible speck off the drape of gray tunic over his knee. He said, “I am sure you have realized by now how serious matters are. I want you to tell me, in your own words, how you came to be in this room.”

He decided abruptly to speak plainly. He was not Octavian; he could not strategize his way through this conversation. “What's the point? Am I to expect leniency from the men who slayed Caesar?”

The lines on either side of Brutus's mouth seemed to deepen. “Regardless of our differences on that matter,” he said evenly, “I am generally regarded as a fair man. Ask yourself: what have you got to lose?”

Agrippa considered this. At his back, a surge of shouting in the distance called his attention once more. It was strange and wrong to be suspended in this room while the city spasmed around them, in flux: up for grabs.

When his silence stretched on, Brutus asked, “What do you want?” He leaned forward. “I mean, in general. When you picture a future for yourself, for Rome – what do you see?”

Agrippa's eyes narrowed. What kind of question was this? Octavian would know; but then, Brutus likely would not ask such a question of Octavian. Therefore it had to be a trick.

“That's not for me to decide,” he said. “I'm just a soldier—”

“I've had my fill of men carrying swords pretending they're only following orders,” said Brutus, expression hardening suddenly. “Every one of you holds the power of life or death over others but pretends to have no agency of your own. Spare me.”

Agrippa's mouth snapped shut. His first instinct had been the correct one; silence was preferable.

The consul sensed this thought and sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. He tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. He reasoned, “Look at this way – the longer you talk, the longer you may live.” He flicked his eyes down and met Agrippa's gaze with an almost conspiratorial smile. “And the longer your compatriots have to rescue you.”

He could not find fault with that reasoning. It still felt like a trick, but he was beginning to think the whole conversation would.

Agrippa took a measured breath. He turned his head, not taking his eyes off the consul, and listened for a moment longer to the fighting outside. He thought of the destruction that was taking place right now across the city; of the thousands of families hunkering down to wait out the chaos; of the work that would need to be done to pick up the pieces afterward.

Meanwhile, Brutus waited. If he was unsettled or cared at all about the unrest in the streets, he did not show it.

Agrippa said, “I want to build a Rome that is beautiful.”

  
  


**II. October:** **_vox et praeterea nihil_  
  
**

And Cicero said:

“When the crisis loomed at the Ides of March, I thought it my duty, as a senator and a man of consular rank, to remain in Rome. It was respect and love that bade me never to avert my eyes from the Republic, and from that day to this one I have remained ever vigilant on its behalf. And despite that peace which was ratified with the most illustrious of citizens in the aftermath of that fateful day, I come to you now with a troubled heart.

“I wish, first, to state that none of this was inevitable. Antonius seemed of good disposition in Aprilis, and wisely sought counsel from the chief men of the state; he did not resist, for example, when Brutus proposed abolishing from the constitution the Dictatorship, which had by that time attained a power indistinguishable from that of a king. We all submitted to the consuls' authority in this matter with great eagerness, and indeed passed a resolution in the Senate thanking them with the greatest of honors and compliments.

“It seemed, in Aprilis, that Antonius wished to the city to be free. Now in October, I can no longer make the claim – try as I might, as I would dearly love – that this remains true.

“We are besieged. Circled like a camp of unsuspecting travelers in the night by bandits and cutthroats. Antonius has stationed an army upon our doorstep and asks us to carry on as usual, as if he does not hold a blade to the city's throat.

“These new circumstances work upon the mind, filtering back through the months to cast past actions in new light. Recall his settling of those so-called Veterans – would that the money remained in the temple of Ops! We see now what it was truly for. Not to settle but to instigate, not to preserve for those soldiers a livelihood, but to cherish hopes of new booty.

  
  


(“ _Booty_ ,” muttered Antony, incredulous. But Brutus was far too intent upon Cicero to reply.)

  
  


“We see now that it was the good consul Brutus who held back the excesses and whims of Antonius. It was he who negotiated with the foreign queen and settled the question forever of Caesar's name. And when Quintus Pompey roused a rebel force in Spain, it was he who sent reinforcements into the field to aid in his suppression. We must imagine, when Antonius lingered in the West, it was Brutus who urged him to discard all evil counselors, give up the province of Gaul, and return to submission to the authority of the Senate.

“Antonius has been placed on the loftiest and most honorable step of dignity in the republic, and yet he considers this privilege of no importance. While clad in the robe of peace, he dares bring war to the city. Any day, I expect, the Forum will be surrounded, every entrance of it will be blocked up and armed men will be placed in garrison within the pomerium.

“I wish, Antonius, that you could remember your grandfather, of whom you have repeatedly heard me speak. Do you think that he would have been willing to gain immortality, at the price of being feared for his licentious use of arms? What he considered the best in life was being equal to all citizens in freedom, and chief of them all in worth.

“But what am I saying? If the lesson of Caesar could not convince you that being loved is preferable to being feared, no speech of any one man will do any good or have any influence with you. You have never listened.

  
  


(“I wish I wasn't listening _now_ ,” said Antony.)

  
  


“You, Antonius, have heard many recent judgments delivered upon you by the Roman people, but I am greatly concerned that you are not sufficiently influenced by these opinions. For what was the meaning of the shouts of the innumerable crowd of citizens collected at the Roman Games? Or of the verses made by the people in the Forum? Are these things a feeble indication of the incredible unanimity of the entire Roman people? What more?

“You all know I am a man who has always despised that applause which is bestowed by the vulgar crowd. But when it is bestowed by all ranks together: high, middle, and low, I then think it is not applause but a deliberate verdict.

  
  


(“A babe does not cry in the street without Friend Cicero considering it a capital charge leveled at me,” said Antony.)

  
  


“We call upon you, Antonius, to lay down your arms and cease your blade rattling. We ought to regard peace and tranquility above all things. I speak to you as a friend, for it is the duty of a friend to point out evils which may be avoided – and if they never ensue, that will be the best refutation you could make of my speech.

“Witness, friends, what a formidable thing it is to have an armed man angry with me, especially in these evil times when such men can use their blades with impunity. But understand, so long as I have the power to come into this chamber, I will never shrink from the danger or sharing my opinion!

“I will leave you all with a proposal, which I think reasonable, and which I do not imagine even Antonius will object to: if I have said anything insulting against his way of life or against his morals, I will not object to his being my bitterest enemy. But let him respond only in kind. Let him come to us in this very chamber and, if he is angry, show his anger only as he legitimately may show it to a fellow-citizen.

“I bid you speak, Antonius. Use your words.

“I believe, O conscript fathers, I have now said enough to bear testimony of my consistency, whatever event may befall me. I thank the Senate for lending me such kind and attentive ears. If I have such opportunities to speak in the future without exposing both myself and you to danger, I shall avail myself of them. And if danger cannot be avoided, as far as I can I shall reserve myself – not for myself, understand, but rather for the sake of Rome.

“I have lived long enough for the course of human life. I have had my glory. If any additional life is granted to me, it shall be bestowed not so much on myself as on you and on the Republic.”  
  


* * *

  
“That man,” reflected Antony, a little dully, “sure can talk.”

They were back in the house; Antony had been so reduced after sitting through the lengthy oration, he hadn't the presence of mind to object to accompanying Brutus home. He now sat on the floor before the fire, staring into the leaping flames.

The events in the chamber seemed to have had the opposite effect upon Brutus, who was as animated as he'd ever been. Being Brutus, this translated into him sitting at his desk, pen in hand.

“This was only the beginning,” he said, words come in a rapid patter. “You realize that, don't you, Antony? Cicero has been stewing for months, but I recognize that look in his eyes. He has committed himself. There will be more to come.”

“More?” echoed Antony. “How? How many different ways can one man possibly say 'you're an incompetent boor'?” He took a swift drink and thought hard. “You know, I keep casting my mind back over his speech, and I still don't understand how it went on for as long as it did. What, in the end, did he actually have to say? _Desist._ Right? That was the sum total of his point.” He looked over to Brutus. “Right?”

“You need to refute his claim.”

Antony's face twisted. “I have 60,000 men camped out along the Appian Way, how exactly do you I refute his claim? He's perfectly correct about the surface facts, the whole city can see that.”

His colleague had no patience for this. He threw his pen down and said to Antony, “I want you to refute his claim that you are a bully who wants to put every man of quality to the sword.”

“So – you want me to lie,” said Antony, mostly to mess with him. It was a success; Brutus glowered. He sighed and rubbed his face. “Funny thing about swords. No one ever believes you don't intend to use them.”

“Funny indeed. You see why I disapprove of your choices.”

“Why did you ask me to join you?” he asked.

“We needed to discuss our next move,” said Brutus, nonplussed. “I know things have been – strained between the two of us, but it seemed reasonable to set that aside for the moment. Given the circumstances.”

“No, no,” said Antony. He clambered up to a couch and stretched out, hands behind his head. His wine cup sat abandoned on the floor; he needed a refill. He said, “I meant, why did you ask me to join the conspiracy? All these months later, here we are, arguing about the same things we have always argued about. We both know why I said yes, but I don't believe I ever understood your side of the matter.”

Brutus looked at him across the desk, face devoid of expression.

Antony laughed after a couple seconds. “Do you even know yourself? Or did it just _seem like the thing to do_?”

“There was to be a reckoning,” said Brutus stiffly. He nudged the papers on his desktop, but would not commit to pretending to outright shuffle them. “Once Cassius and I – and the others – once we made up our minds to do it, once I knew he was to die, asking you was... I was anxious that you be on the right side.”

Antony raised his eyebrows. “And am I? I confess I still do not know.”

“You are,” said Brutus.

“Seems to me you define right only by whatever you declare as being so – and then punish me for taking that idea to its logical end.” His tone was idle, but his intent was anything but – he'd had some wine, and he was beginning to recover from the oration. His libido woke up to find itself in the wrong room with the wrong company for long term strategizing.

Brutus cast his darkening eyes down to the desk. “It's not logic you are following, but your own base desires.”

“Can't it be both?” Antony made a slight sound. “I'm a simple man – they happen to align.”

He rolled smoothly off the couch and approached the desk. Brutus took a careful breath and seemed to hold it. His eyes traveled over Antony's body, and he sat back in his chair – his body turning, knees widening, automatically accommodating all supplicants.

“Cicero demands a response – I'll give him one,” said Antony, coming around the desk. He leaned over the man's chair. He lowered his voice. “If you like, I'll go on my knees before you in front of the entire Senate. Lay my sword at your feet and have you order me to do whatever you like, whatever it is you deem _right_. Could you or any of them really object to such a show of humility?”

Brutus's grip on the edge of his desk seemed tight enough to make the wood creak. His cheek were red. But his voice was still a fair approximation of dry when he replied, “Whatever this is, it is not humility.”

“No?”

“No. Speaking of dictating definitions.” Brutus cleared his throat. “You'd hold a city for ransom, demanding a king. We ask you to follow your duty as a consul of equal rank, but you'd prefer to transfer your power to me. None of this sounds like humility to me, Antony.”

In his lap beneath his tunic, Brutus's cock was a thickening, ever hopeful line. But it belonged to a man with an infuriating propensity for self-denial.

He drew back. “You speak almost as if you agree with Cicero.”

“Do I?” inquired Brutus. He shifted back towards the desk; the gate closed. He picked up his pen. “Perhaps when you draft your response to the charge of war-mongering, you should do your best to convince me as well, then.”  
  


* * *

  
It was a military confab, a crisis response discussion. They held it in the cramped, airless backroom of a wineshop to maximize convenience and privacy. As a group, it was agreed they all thought better over drinks.

Antony paced around the cramped room. His pacing ran counterpoint to Fulvia's, and they passed one another every thirty seconds or so.

“I have to draw them out,” said Antony. “Induce them somehow to use force where they haven't the imperium. Then I'll arrest the whole lot on the charges of treason.”

Lucius, who by then was lying stretching out over three barrels, said, _again_ , “And how will you do that?”

They had been staring at this particular dead end of the plotting labyrinth for an hour. Antony wanted to take a ram to it.

“Octavian is careful, I'll give him that. He won't approve any move that might reflect back on him poorly.”

“Unless you give them no choice,” said Fulvia. “If you do something to make them think you are moving directly against them, it could provoke a hasty response.”

Lucius said, “Something that doesn't make you look like power-drunk maniac....”

“...and something that doesn't make you look petty.”

“That one's negotiable,” said Antony, pausing to look at her. “I'm not above petty.”

“I thought you said you wished to avoid alienating Brutus,” she said.

He scoffed. “You want to talk petty, look no further than that that man's—”

“Eyes front, Brother,” said Lucius. “Don't get distracted.”

Fulvia stopped pacing and hopped up on the barrel beside Lucius's head. Her hand tangled in his hair, and she gave Antony a look. “Listen to him. You always do this when you're fixated on some new awful person.”

This was not a conversation he was interested in having with either of them, let alone both joined in common purpose against him, so Antony decided to prove them wrong by letting the conversation die there.

He said, “So – what, then? What would be big enough to provoke the little worm?”

Fulvia hummed and tilted her head to smile down at Lucius. She said, a little singsong, “I still say we take the ringleaders of the legions and execute them on the Field of Mars.” She walked her fingers from his hairline down Lucius's forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and tapped his lips. “Make an example out of those who would cross you.”

Lucius reached up and captured her hand. He pressed a kiss to her palm. “Sweetpea, darling – remember what I just said about not looking like a power-mad maniac?”

She frowned. “You exaggerate.”

“Without proof, the executions would appear – arbitrary, at the very least. They will call him a monster.”

“And it'd be bad for morale,” said Antony, resuming pacing so he wouldn't have to watch their tender display. “Right, Vorenus?”

“Bit bad for morale, yes, sir,” said Vorenus. He stood by the door and had refused all drinks offered to him. This abstention had made Fulvia suspicious, until Antony explained the man's character: namely, that he was no fun.

She leaned back, head hitting the wall with a light sound. She sighed once and they all fell silent.

Then Lucius said suddenly, “What if – look, you still need to make a reply to Cicero, right?”

“Don't remind me,” said Antony. “Brutus has talked of little else all week. He refuses to write one, said it would be too obvious it didn't come from me.”

“No, I mean – his problem with you is your enormous army, stationed outside the city.”

Fulvia sat forward and tapped her husband's shoulder excitedly. “Yes, yes—”

“And?” asked Antony, not making the connection.

Lucius said, levering himself up on one elbow to look at him, “So what if, under—”

“ _Very_ politic,” said Fulvia.

He nodded. “—a very politic gesture of seeming responsive to the Senate's concerns, you merely... send the rotten legions away?”

“Like returning a bowl of soup to the kitchen,” she said.

“Send them away.” Antony stopped and looked at them. “Send them _away_. I could split them up, redistribute the men, the bad eggs to the far corners of the provinces. And either that solves the problem, or Agrippa makes his move to keep his army close.” He spread his hands and smiled. “Which also solves my problem, because then I can kill him.”

Lucius said, “Meanwhile, you look like a reasonable man reacting coolly to Cicero's attack on your character.”

Antony frowned. “The one downside to your plan. I so wanted to cut off the man's hands.”

“Another time,” said Fulvia soothingly.

He approached and braced his arms on the barrels to look down at his brother. “Pietas, when the hell did you start thinking like a politician?”

Lucius grinned. “Gaius's fault, mainly.” He glanced between his wife and brother. “I'm hoping it fades with time, like a nasty rash.”  
  


* * *

  
Every man has to find his own style of oratory to suit his person, and Antony had never looked back after discovering the Asiatic. It was bold and full of flourish, and accommodated his natural tendency to sweep a room and dominate space.

  
  


(“Remember,” said Brutus beforehand, “don't smirk, don't sneer, and don't snarl.”

“You'd have me address the Senate with a bag over my head,” said Antony.)

  
  


When he took the floor of the Senate, he did not speak at first, but ambled along, observing each face with a self-assured eye. He sought not to intimidate, but to remind the senators that he could be patient. He waited for the shuffling bodies to settle, for the occasional murmur to die out. He waited for the silence to grow and thicken.

And when at last Cicero's expression unfolded and he opened his mouth to call out, Antony spoke:

“You will have already observed, I'm sure, what I wear beneath my toga today. I wear my armor to show you the peril I have faced on your behalf, so you may look at the scars it bears and see with your own eyes how I have put myself between you and danger. That's real danger, not the shadows of paranoia our colleague Cicero would shrink from.

“Look here, at this line above my ribs – this came from a wild lunging blow delivered by a large Edetani man in June. And here you will note this mark: if not for my breastplate, I do believe the blade would have punctured my liver. And I think we can all agree I would sorely miss that....

  
  


(“This is a very serious charge you're responding to – I'm not sure you should do the joke,” said Brutus as he rehearsed in front of him the night before.

“For this to work, I have to sound like I'm being honest with them,” countered Antony. “I can think of no better way to sound like myself.”)

  
  


“I show you this battle-scarred armor not to boast – you are all seasoned men. Refined men. I know you are not so easily impressed by stories of wartime exploits. I show you this battle-scarred armor because I also know what it is to live safe here on our hill, and forget the unfortunate bloody reality of battle.

“Quintus Pompey rallied countless groups of Iberians – men from different tribes, who spoke different languages. He convinced them that they could stand against Rome, and they all wanted nothing more than to soak the land of Further Spain with Roman blood....

“My colleague Brutus, here, has been known to call me a little – well, overly suspicious. I prefer the term cautious. I brought my troops back here as a precaution – to protect you all, not to enslave you! My goal has only ever been to preserve the Roman people and their property. I act, as ever,

  
  


(“Antony, I beg you, please try to say that with a straight face,” said Brutus. “If you laugh, all this will have been for nothing.”

“I'm trying, I swear on the Black Stone. Why did I write this? Guardian! Guardian of the— _fuck_ , no, sorry. Can't do it.”

“Yes, you can. Say it again.”)

  
  


“—as a guardian of the city. But a critical part of my duty is to be responsive to the needs and desires of my fellow citizens. And while Cicero would have you doubt my commitment and generosity, indeed my very love for the Republic, I wish to show you today, now, that I am listening. I hear you.

“And in furtherance of my desire to be responsive to the concerns of this body, to show the respect I have for its civil authority – I will be immediately disbanding and redistributing all my legions from Macedonia.”

He turned on his heel and watched the reactions. Cassius smiled faintly and shook his head – too appreciative of the move to be involved in any plot with the legions. Meanwhile, Cicero frowned. It was not a frown of displeasure so much as worry.

  
  


(“Brutus, do not look so worried. I have done this before, you know,” he said, near the end of the night. “I'd even venture to say I'm pretty good at it.”

“You can sway a crowd,” agreed Brutus. “And you can rouse your soldiers. That's different. The people love you – but you will not be addressing the people tomorrow.”)


	2. Chapter 2

**III. December:** _**pro patria** _

_  
_“...sewer system?” said Brutus. “You want to build out the sewer system.”

Agrippa could not read his tone, but it didn't matter; his response was the same regardless of reception. “And build more aqueducts, yes.”

He put his head back and pondered this. “So: gardens and public baths and public water infrastructure. This is the rebel general's bold desire for Rome?”

 _That_ tone, he thought he could read. He had encountered it before, in conversation with some of Octavian's patrician friends: as if a dog had stood up on its hind legs and started speaking fluent Greek.

“I personally know three families who have to haul water from a filthy well an hour's walk away from their homes,” he said. “When you have seen the difference it makes in a life, the desire is not so strange – nor even so bold,” he added, a little hard. “After all, we have the knowledge and resources. Caesar knew this.”

Brutus smiled faintly. “Forgive me, I did not mean make light – on the contrary, I think those sound like fine ideas. I am curious, however – why do you think following one such as Octavian is how you get there?”

“Octavian is the smartest man I have ever met,” he said, after searching fruitlessly for a reason for the question. After all, following Octavian's lead had always felt like the most natural and obvious course. “And he listens to any good idea, never mind its source.” He paused. The consul had not yet shown himself to be sensitive to questions or retorts. He asked, “Can I ask – why have you opposed him at every turn? What has he done, to deserve your suspicion?”

Brutus looked away. “I am suspicious of any man who burns with the desire for power. Do not forget, I grew up under Julius Caesar's wing. It makes one rather... attuned to those with a certain type of ambition.”

“But without ambition, how would anything get done?” he countered. “Octavian wants to continue the reforms his uncle made. I mean – why else go through all this?” He gestured towards the window. “You know he could've retired and led a very comfortable life with his inheritance. His health being what it is, it might've even been the prudent thing to do. But some men are called to public service.”

Brutus bit back a smile.

He took in this obvious skepticism and added, a little defiant, “Even if I hadn't known him before, that choice alone would make him someone worth following.”

The consul considered this, looking contemplative. The only sign he felt anything about the scene unfolding on the streets outside was in the steady tap of his long fingers against the underside of his elbows. Agrippa watched the fingers.

Brutus said, “Public service, is it. Is that why the streets of Rome are so unsafe these past nights?”

Agrippa swallowed down his instinctive protests. The consul did not care that Octavian had not started the riots; in the end, it probably didn't really matter who did.

He said, “One man builds a pyre and the other strikes the flint. Would you not say they both started the fire? You push people far enough, you shouldn't be surprised when they push back.”

**IV. November: _repente dives nemo factus est bonus_**

The voice of Gaius Octavian Caesar issued from the front of the pavilion, coaxing curious passersby on the street to listen; to come closer; to join him. The people of Rome were no stranger to the pleader or demagogue, but this was something else, something new.

“I thought Antony said Brutus had arranged matters so the boy had access to Caesar's estate,” said Fulvia to Eros, as the lady and slave stepped up to the cult center. They were on a fact-finding mission; it was thought the two of them were less likely to be recognized.

“The boy was granted full access, Domina,” he confirmed.

“So why, then, is he accepting donations?” She indicated the man standing to the left of the tent's entrance. He carried a box, and nodded and murmured gratefully whenever a passing devotee deposited a coin.

“Fiscal prudence,” said Eros, studying the man thoughtfully. “I had heard rumors that such a thing existed, but have never witnessed it firsthand.”

Fulvia paused, glancing back at him with narrow-eyed appraisal. But when Eros merely blinked back without guile, she let it go and continued inside the tent. He followed, a respectful step behind.

And Octavian said:

“People are anxious and searching for answers – well, friends, do not come to me on your knees asking, for I do not have them.

“Enough, _enough_ with this endless search for mortal saviors. Do you not yet understand? We must look to our ancestors for guidance. They have always watched over Rome, and they watch over its citizens now, in this time of great uncertainty and turmoil.

“A poisoned stream begets poisoned fruit on its shore. Do you feel abandoned by the State? Do you suffer from the same shame of neglect that I feel when I stand in the Forum? These ailments do not originate with you, but with the sly and cruel leadership that has fallen, like a calamitous storm, upon our great city.

“Power that is supposed to be held in check by a body of two has been perverted into a body of one. We have all heard the same whispers, and we know in our hearts that they are not only true, but likely hiding an even greater perversion.

“But even as we suffer in this shadow, light is fighting its way through the clouds. It always does – is that not the nature of light? And if we are patient, and dutiful, we will discover we are cared for by Divus Julius, who remembers and loves us as a father cherishes his children.

  
  


(“We clearly had different types of fathers,” murmured Fulvia. Eros, whose own had sold him when he was but nine, privately agreed.)

  
  


“There is peace to be found, even as the Republic teeters around us. _He who was unconquered in life shall be unconquered in death!_

“Divus Julius does not look behind him, but ever forward. And while his comet may no longer be streaking brightly overhead, its light still shines down upon us through the deep heavens. Do you feel it filling your chests, straightening your backs? Raise your heads high, for as he is Father to his country, you are his children.

“And as obedient children, we must not turn away from Divus Julius's commands. We must restore that precious peace which has always been divinely ordained for Rome....”

  
  


“What do you suppose all that meant, Domina?” asked Eros, after they had stepped back out onto the street.

He had never heard anyone speak in such a manner before. He found the young priest's words repeated themselves in his thoughts without prompting. Burrowing, working their way down.

“I don't know,” said Fulvia grimly. “But I don't think it's good.” She glanced at him, noting his disquieted expression. “Word of advice, Eros: never trust anyone who promises inner peace.”

He took that in and revealed nothing of what he thought. “Because it doesn't exist?”

“Because it's not something another can give you.” She looked back once more to the pavilion, where Octavian was still speaking. His voice bled out into the street. “Come, let's away.”  
  


* * *

  
On the fifth day of the month, Antony stopped by the house to discuss the growing problem of the Divus Julius cult and discovered his co-consul drunk in his study.

“ _Really_ ,” he said, intrigued, to Eleni, trying to peek past her through the cracked doorway. “Why, the sun has not even reached its zenith for the day.”

The slave woman put her hands on her hips, as if to make herself a wider obstacle in his path. “He has been unwell.”

“He's drunk, not suffering a stomach chill,” he said flatly. “Move, woman, I am here on consular business.”

It had been months since he last heard the voice of Private Brutus, that perfect wreck of a man. Brutus so rarely indulged these days; Jupiter himself could not tear Antony away from the scene of disaster. He threw open the door with a bang and announced himself cheerfully.

Brutus, a crumpled pile of gray shoulders behind his desk, made a noise and hunched further down in his seat. “No,” he said pathetically. “Go away.”

“'Fraid not. We have much to discuss; plot; plan.” He hooked a chair and sat sideways on it across from him. He rested his chin on a palm and said, “The future unrolls before us continuously, dear Brutus. The infinite scroll. On and on and on and—”

“I command you to shut up and leave.”

He paused, surprise lifting his eyebrows. “You'd break our impasse of these past months in order to be left alone to drink and sulk?”

Once he said it aloud, it actually did not sound so incredible. But Brutus's mouth jerked down and, with a sigh, he wrenched himself into a semblance of attention. His eyes were more bright than bleary; Antony estimated he was only two cups in.

“What do you _want_ ,” said Brutus.

Antony balanced an ankle on a knee and folded his hands. “Well. As you know, the Mundus is open and the dead are free to walk among us for the last time this year. Caesar popped by for a little chat, and _he_ said his cunt of a great-nephew is planning something nefarious.”

“Most obliging of him,” said Brutus around the rim of his down-turned wine cup.

“And how about you. Is there a reason for this... regression?”

Brutus lowered the cup. He looked around for an amphora and, finding none within easy reach, slumped back in momentary defeat. He flicked a finger at one of the scrolls on his desk and said, “Bad news from Sicily.”

Already reaching for the scroll, Antony asked, “Is there ever _good_ news from Sicily?”

“Don't get too excited,” came the waspish reply. “This isn't something that requires a military response.”

He paused in unrolling the report, and they scowled at one another.

He read. A few lines in, he stood and walked over to the tray on the far wall and collected the half-full amphora that sat there and carried it and a second cup back to the desk. He filled both cups. He continued reading.

When he finished, he sat back and said, comprehensively: “Fuck.”

“A most laconic summary,” said Brutus. “I could not have done better myself.”

He slapped the scroll down and demanded, “What is this? There was no news of a bad harvest this year.”

Brutus rubbed his eyes and muttered into his palms: “I shall have to write to my agents in the area and request further information on the matter. But,” he waved a hand, “extortion, corruption – pirates? Take your pick.”

Antony said, contemplative, “It could be Quintus Pompey, rearing his head again. Quick turnaround, but he is a slippery bastard.”

This prompted Brutus to drop his hands and say scathingly, “Oh, you'd just love that, wouldn't you. Get to – run off again with your army, and leave me dealing with the failing land reform and Cicero spouting off in the Senate every other week, and, and – whatever it is you came in here to tell me about.”

Antony murmured wordless noises of comfort and topped off the man's wine. He waited for him to drop back in his seat, clutching the cup to his chest, and then he said:

“There is a way to fix all of that, you know,” he said helpfully.

Brutus's eyes were dark and merciless as they pinned him in place. “There has only ever been one man I desire to rule over, Antony.”

Antony's hand, reaching for his own cup, stuttered in mid-air.

Brutus did this, from time to time. Twenty years and he was still unprepared for it, these moments when the man would effortlessly reach out and remind him with an errant tug that he was taken in all the ways that mattered to a mortal.

Then Brutus shut his eyes, a portrait of the deepest gloom, and continued in an aggrieved and much less impressive tone, “But as he is a stubborn, unruly oaf, it is not to be. So I suppose we shall both have to continue on, frustrated and unfulfilled.”

“...You get so bitchy when you drink,” muttered Antony, still unsettled, and went to stretch out on a couch.  
  


* * *

  
“Have you heard the kind of peculiar lectures he gives to his followers?” asked Brutus, an hour or so later. “It's all very odd, most un-priestlike. All this talk about – emotions and _feelings_. And morals? Who ever heard of a god that gave a fig about morals?”

He had imbibed enough wine to recapture some of his spirits; he kept picking up a stylus and staring blankly at his tablet, as if expecting words to spring into existence and solve all his problems.

“Does make you wonder if Octavian ever even met Caesar,” mused Antony. He was lying on a coach with his head dangling over the side, hoping the inverted perspective might inspire him.

Brutus dropped his stylus in disgust. “I mean, you don't see Lepidus out there in the streets, do you. Babbling about hearts and hope. Can you imagine if all the state priests acted like that boy does? It'd be unbearable.”

“Mm, bureaucrats sticking their noses into every home. Don't think people would like that much.”

Brutus picked his stylus up again and said, in a maddeningly superior tone, “What I don't understand is how any decent Roman could be taken in by such an obvious charlatan.”

“You have never been broke and desperate,” said Antony.

“Don't try to tell me _you_ would have fallen prey to this kind of thing.”

He raised a hand and pointed a finger in his general direction. “And don't let your attachment to me blind you; recall I was for a time an adherent to Clodius. Fulvia and I both, really; that man certainly had a way about him.”

He'd known people who would have lit themselves on fire if Clodius tossed a rakish wink in their direction. The first few years of his friendship with Fulvia had been marked more by a sense of ruthless competition than anything else.

“If by _way_ ,” said Brutus, dubious, “you mean clearly dangerous and disreputable, then yes, I suppose he did.”

He bit back a laugh, though the couch shook with his effort. “I see we were very different types of teenagers.”

He sniffed. “Obviously.”

“But you do bring up a good point, something that works in our favor: Octavian has no sex appeal.”

Brutus waited a beat. “I fail to see how that is useful.” If the idea of a religious functionary preaching emotions was unsettling, then measuring such a figure by his attractiveness was downright absurd.

“Very different types of teenagers,” Antony repeated under his breath.

There was a knock at the study door, and Brutus immediately stiffened, his expression becoming hunted. Antony eyed him and called out, “Enter.” But he did not sit up. He was thus greeted with the upside-down stifled expressions of surprise from Vorenus and Titus Pullo.

“What are you two doing here?” he asked.

Pullo nudged his friend. Upside-down Vorenus jerked his head and said stiffly, “Requesting permission to leave Rome, sir.”

“What?” Brutus startled up from his seat. He looked between them. “No, you can't. Absolutely out of the question.”

Antony rolled his head along the edge of the couch seat and gave him a look of feigned surprise. “Oh, are you now making decisions about my personal guard?”

“You cannot let him leave, Antony. Think it through. With the mood of the city right now, your security is more threatened than ever before.”

“You forget, I now have a second Lucius on hand.” He looked to Vorenus and asked, “Why do you want to leave? I'm assuming you haven't just taken a look at our odds and decided to throw your lot in elsewhere.”

“Yes,” broke in Brutus with sudden suspicion, “you haven't been attending the Divus Julius gatherings, have you?”

“Ah, heard about those,” said Pullo, comprehensively failing to read the room. “Clever boy, Octavian. Always a bit strange, mind you, but you never know what he'll think of next.”

Vorenus stiffened, somehow, even further and quickly explained before the consuls could react: “It's my children, sir. They're alive.”

“Oh. Well – that's good news,” said Antony. “So why the face?”

“They're in slavery.”

“That's _terrible_ ,” said Brutus, sinking back into his seat. He sounded more glum than sympathetic, however.

“...Could definitely be better,” agreed Antony.

“I need to find them, sir.” It was the closest Vorenus had come to expressing an emotion in months. Pullo, standing behind his friend, was practically dancing on his feet with urgency and hope. His obvious concern and affection for another was so disconcerting, Antony wished to be rid of it as soon as possible.

“Yes, all right.” He lifted an imperious hand. “Go and may Fortuna go with you – well, what is it?” he added, when the man hesitated.

Vorenus said, “It's only – I remember what happened the last time I was called away from my general's side.”

Antony took that in. Today seemed to be the day men felt they could say the most provoking things to him. He would have to take care to avoid Cicero, he thought. He finally sat up – he did so slowly and looked at the man fully in the face.

He said pleasantly, “I believe killed him, yes? Fear not, I'll not let history repeat itself. Now go, before I change my mind.”

The two men went. From behind his desk, Brutus said, “I hope you didn't just make a grave mistake.”

“One man won't make a difference to what's coming,” he said absently. He thought about grabbing another cup of wine, but he still had the long ride back to his camp ahead of him; the prospect made him feel very tired. He squinted sidelong at Brutus. “I don't suppose you've re-thought your refusal of a diadem?”

“What?” Brutus blinked, startled and half-affronted. “No, of course not.”

“Figured,” he said, and reached for his sandals.  
  


* * *

  
It was a fine day, for November. Official business of the state was suspended and everyone in the city was preparing for the upcoming feast of Jupiter. Crowds gathered in the Forum to relax and socialize and accidentally present themselves as irresistible targets for any and all agitators looking for an audience.

“Well, there he goes,” sighed Pansa, standing to the side as he spied Cicero mounting the rostra.

“Cheer up, you won the bet,” said Hirtius.

“Oh, would that I had not! I suppose you have to admire his tenacity, though. I know men twenty or thirty years younger who could not speak for half so long. I wonder how he manages it.”

“He abstains from all acts of sexual gratification,” replied Hirtius. And when his companion snorted, he protested, “I do not joke. The man told me once – I'll never forget it – he does not like sex. Said he finds it tedious, and a waste of energy. So, just imagine, what might you be able to accomplish if you renounced all carnal pleasures and redirected that effort to other avenues in your life.”

  
  


(“We have always been a city that welcomed all,” said Cicero. “Our gods are not jealous gods. If a man worships Isis, would any dream of speaking out against him? By threatening prohibition of the cult of Divus Julius, Antonius is stepping out of line with generations of religious tolerance.

“And why? Because he cannot let it be thought that the very one he betrayed and slew might now be elevated beyond his wildest dreams or, indeed, potential. Is it jealousy that moves his disgruntlement? Or is this merely another extension of his bullying ways?”)

  
  


“...Don't think I'd take that trade-off, actually,” said Pansa.

“No, nor I,” said Hirtius heavily.

“I mean, it's all about balance, isn't it? Nothing wrong with sex, so long as it's in proper proportion to one's duties and obligations. I admire the man, of course, but do any of us truly want to _be_ Cicero? Look at him. He has the respect and admiration of the Republic, but there's only one way that man's going to end.”

“Knife to the belly,” mused Hirtius.

“Or to the throat,” said Pansa.

“He'll be lucky Antony doesn't do unto him like the Parthians did Crassus.”

Pansa shook his head. “Antony wouldn't waste the gold. He has debts to pay, after all.”

They shared a laugh.

  
  


(“As we are a nation ruled by laws and not base appetites, Antonius shall have to suffer yet another disappointment in a life – a life already dripping with his animal excesses. He cannot interfere with Gaius Octavian Caesar's citizen right to ancestor worship, of which the cult of Divus Julius is a natural outgrowth.”)

  
  


“Never thought I'd see the day where Cicero spoke in defense of an unsanctioned cult,” said Pansa.

“So cynical, Pansa! Can't you hear him, he is not defending an unsanctioned cult, he is defending Octavian's right to ancestor worship.”

Pansa shook his head. “Lawyers. That's our trouble, you know: too many lawyers.”

“We live in troubled times, my friend. Troubled times. We should leave Rome, and travel to my estate in the south. I have a feeling this winter is to be very bleak indeed.”

“If the city must shed blood to relieve some of the pressure, I _would_ prefer not to be here when it happens. We could come back in the spring. By then, the Senate might even be ready to give us an army – ho, hey, what's this?”

They had kept themselves far back from the rostra, which was just as well, for they were fearful of the crowds of young men who drifted in from the sides during the speech.

Some were devotees of Divus Julius; that much was clear by the way they nodded and occasionally shouted along to Cicero's tirade. Their eyes carried a certain gleam of fervency. But they were not the only faction in the audience; many were followers of Antony, noted by their soldierly builds, sly glances, and mocking murmurs. The two groups gathered and pressed together beneath the words which flowed like a war banner from the rostra.

“I do not much like the look this scene has taken on, Friend,” said Hirtius uneasily.

“Nor I, nor I – come, let us go back to my house. I believe we have heard enough of what Cicero has to say, and I do not fancy witnessing the crowd's reply.”

And so, the two friends departed.  
  


* * *

  
At the feast of Jupiter, Antony was bade to sit between Lucius and Fulvia: through a desperate look from his brother, and outright demand by her. As the only other option was to take his seat next to his co-consul, he pled duty to Brutus and attended his family first. His resolve in his holdout against Brutus was crumbling as the year slid into winter darkness, and he wanted to give himself no easy excuse.

But as he sat between the feuding couple and watched the sacrifice of the white cow, he thought he had made a mistake in his calculations.

Lucius was downcast, huddled down on his couch with his knees close up to his chest. He reminded Antony of nothing more than Baccha when he first came across him neglected in the camp kennels. Lucius had already eaten four little cakes, but mournfully: as if they tasted of ash.

“Are you going to tell me what's going on?” Antony asked Fulvia in an undertone.

“Your mother,” she said stiffly.

Antony silently grimaced at what was coming; across the room, Brutus caught his eye. He tilted his head around the bleeding cow carcass and raised an inquiring eyebrow at Antony's pained expression. Antony shook his head slightly.

“She does not think that I have been clothing my husband satisfactorily.”

Glancing at his brother, he noted there was indeed a new toga draped over his shoulder. He recognized the fine work as belonging to Julia.

“Ah,” said Antony, and no more.

There was not much he could say; just as he had failed on countless occasions to behave as a proper Roman man, Fulvia often fell short in the measure of a proper Roman woman. It was hard to console about a charge that was true. There was only one thing he could say.

“Eh.” He lifted his wine cup to Fulvia. “Fuck her.”

“Marcus!” gasped Lucius, cake crumbs falling from his mouth as he gaped over in horror.

Fulvia's mouth twitched into a slight smile as she met his eyes. She lifted her cup to Antony's and said, “Fuck _them_.”  
  


* * *

  
The Plebeian Games at the Circus Flaminius were almost a relief to attend, for Brutus had nothing to do as consul but watch; all pomp and circumstance were the responsibility of the plebeian aediles. He was permitted to sit up in a box with Cassius and pretend for an afternoon to be a private citizen.

Cassius, of course, had to go and ruin it by talking about nothing but politics.

“Cicero has never been able to see beyond his own ego. The man cannot divorce himself from the Senate. He'll brook no change, no alteration to the body's powers.”

“You sound almost like Antony,” said Brutus, watching the harpastrum players below. They should've gotten a box closer to the field, he thought. He could barely make out the ball.

Cassius checked him with a sharp look. “Do not speak such travesties. I'm no friend of the mob, you know that.”

Brutus rolled his eyes and sighed. “It's only – I don't remember you speaking like this in February. Where's the passionate cry for liberty, the wistful reminiscing about an empowered senatorial class?”

“Oh, it's all still there. The Senate's not perfect, but it's all we have. The only thing standing between us and the tyranny of the assemblies.” As he spoke, he nodded out at the crowd of the Circus Flaminius, as if the sports-mad spectators were poised to rise up against them at any moment. “This is why we must have peace between Cicero and your man.”

“Your _consul_ , you mean,” said Brutus sharply.

It was not often he rebuked Cassius, which made it all the more effective when he chose to; Cassius relented immediately.

“Forgive me, Brutus. I meant no offense.”

He held his glare for a few seconds more before cursing under his breath and looking away. His brow came down. “Is this how they all view it?” he asked, nodding out at the crowd. “They believe the insinuations and rumors?”

Cassius could not know it, but Brutus was thinking only of how deeply unfair it was, to be accused of something he was not allowed to have.

“Insinuations?” Cassius stared down at the field and chose his words with care. “I think you should count yourself lucky if Cicero doesn't work his way up to bald accusations by the end of the month.” He hesitated, calculation flickering across his face like light upon water. “You do not advance the matter by remaining silent, you know. If you were to take a public stance, that might put an end to this pissing contest between the two.”

Even setting aside the mortifying prospect of addressing the Senate on what happened – or didn't happen – in his bed, it likely would not solve anything. Like any who spent most of his life overly concerned with how others regarded him, he did not have the confidence of Cassius that his voice wouldn't worsen the situation.

“More likely it'd give Cicero fresh material to chew on,” he said darkly.

Cassius laughed. “Yes, perhaps.”

Something irregular was happening down on the field; the harpastrum players were stopping in their tracks, straightening up. The game petered to a halt.

“What's happening?” asked Brutus. “Do you see?”

He and Cassius leaned out of the box, two craning heads among thousands.

“It's Octavian,” said Cassius – unnecessarily, for now they could all see the young flamen, marching out into the field at the front of a procession of devotees. At the end of the procession, litter-bearers carried a large, empty gold chair.

Octavian turned in place and raised a hand to the crowd, which shouted back: a ragged mix of jeers and cheers. Intermixed was a not-inconsiderable amount of chants, the shape of which could be heard beneath the edges of the wordless shouts. _Divus Julius! Divus Julius!_

“He seriously means to dedicate that chair in the middle of a harpastrum game?” said Brutus, aghast. “Am I not allowed a few hours of peace?”

“I understand why Cicero supports the boy,” said Cassius, sitting back with a troubled look. “But it won't lead where he thinks it does. I mean, doesn't it bother anyone else that Octavian seems to be inventing a new political role for himself before our very eyes, and nothing and no one seems able to stop him?”

If Antony were present, he would have said something crass about the obviousness of the statement; Brutus only frowned and tapped his elbows.

“...I don't trust him,” he said after a moment. “He won't try for a quaestorship or even make a pretense at starting from the bottom of the path of honors. That mix of ambition and impatience, it's dangerous. Even Caesar knew to bide his time.”

“You know,” said Cassius casually, “if you ever need help with anything, anything at all... I still have two lions left.”

“Still have two – ” Brutus did a double take and stared at him. Cassius gazed back, expression telling the whole story. “Wait, that was _you_?”

He shrugged.

Brutus stood and turned fully from the field and the demonstration happening below. “Cassius, are you seriously admitting to trying to kill us back in Aprilis?”

“Kill, who said anything about kill?” He raised his hands and leaned back from his irate friend. “First of all, I thought Antony would be alone. And secondly, the lion had been greatly tamed by then. I thought, truly, it would only... maul him a little. Mess up that pretty face.”

Brutus made a strangled sound. Cassius took in his wild-eyed expression and heaved a sigh.

“Look, I went through a bit of a low period, I admit,” he said. “But I'm much better now. I have recommitted to my Epicurean principles. If the Gods do not care about any of this, why should I?”

“Why are you telling me this now?” he demanded, sounding almost hysterical. “Do you truly think I have so little initiative that I won't have you arrested? I had to climb a pear tree, Cassius. And jump over a _garden_ _wall_.”

“And Antony ran off and preemptively attacked Quintus Pompey, starting a baseless war. Let's take things in their proper proportion, shall we?” Cassius reached up and gently pried the other man's clutching hands from his toga. He covered them, met his eyes clearly, and said, “I am admitting this to you now because I want things to be clear and open between us. A fresh start.”

“I have only 119 days left of this consulship. Why now?”

His eyebrows drifted upward. “You know to the _day_?”

“Cassius,” he said impatiently. “Why now?”

“Seems to me you'll have need of a new partner sooner or later,” he said reasonably. “Or rather, more sooner than later.”

Brutus paled. He looked like he wanted to grab his toga again. Cassius fended this off by turning in his seat and folding his arms tightly against the raiment.

“What do you know?”

“Antony is going to get people killed. Including himself.” He glanced down at the field and said, tone abruptly changing, “Perhaps even today. What's he doing?”

Brutus spun and slapped his hands on the railing as he leaned out to stare down at the field, where Antony and a handful of men were walking across the open ground towards Octavian's retinue.

“A few hours,” cried Brutus. “A few hours of sport. Was that _so_ much to ask?”

Antony's men met the procession and the two groups began shoving one another. Brutus quit the box at a dead run.

Cassius sipped his wine and shook his head. “Sooner rather than later,” he said again, to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**V. December: _hodie mihi, cras tibi_**

A lull in the interrogation, or what the consul might prefer to call a _conversation_. Agrippa, never one to waste words even among friends, hadn't spoken for very long, but it was long enough for the sun to fully sink below the horizon.

He had been reared in the country, and he never much liked Rome at night: the way the hills and buildings disappeared. On a moonless night, the narrow streets of Rome became cloaked in a darkness you could almost feel. You heard and sensed the presence of the city around you, but saw nothing except what fell within the small, flickering circle of your torchlight. In Rome at night, you were alone until you weren't, and then it was too late.

...Unless a fire broke out. He could see a worrying glow in the distance. Light where it did not belong. He sat forward in his chair, bracing his hands on his knees like he might leap up and demand a report, rally men to respond. But he could not leave this room.

Besides, it wasn't his place.

“You are consul,” said Agrippa slowly. “You know, I cannot – I could never imagine holding that kind of power. Your status is not even a remote possibility for someone like me. But what do you do with it? What does the Senate do with it?”

Brutus studied him with a quizzical smile. “You realize if you were not already up on charges of treason, what you just said to me would be enough to condemn you in the eyes of any court?”

He shook his head. He wanted a real answer. Treason was not a word that scared him; it meant so little under illegitimate leadership. “As you said earlier, my allies might come through in time. Octavian is very motivated.”

“Is he.” Now Brutus sounded bored.

“And you? You're scattered,” he said, reckless now. “The only thing propping up this government right now is fear, and a desperation to hold something together that broke long ago.”

A horse screamed suddenly out on the street, followed by men shouting. They both turned their heads to listen. The violence was growing closer, threatening to actually touch these fine houses of the wealthy.

“It will be interesting to see how this bravado of yours holds up over the next few hours,” said Brutus, face still directed towards the window.

“I'm thinking the same thing about yours,” said Agrippa. “You'll never convince me to change my mind.”

“Convince you?” He turned back to him with a frown. “You misunderstand me. Much like you misunderstand the nature of my consulship. I don't care to convince you of anything. I don't care about you at all.”

He blinked and straightened a little in his chair. His cheeks warmed.

Brutus leaned forward, eyes shadowed but intent. “I want to know where Consul Antony is. And if you do not tell me – if he does not appear before this night ends – I will have you stripped and sewn into the belly of a horse and left out under the sun until the maggots eat you alive.”

  
  


**VI. December: _quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat_**

It was that time of year where the shortened days made it seem like there was a festival or feast every couple days, and both consuls had reached the end of their patience with the forced merriment.

“You are, as ever, making too big a deal of this,” said Antony, out of the side of his mouth. “You want me to be more active in my consular duties and then offer nothing but reprimands when I actually do it. Make up your fucking mind.”

“I want you to act with greater prudence. Violently confronting a public demonstration at the Games is not prudent. Threatening the first man of the Senate that you will pull down his house with him inside – that is not _fucking_ _prudent_ , Antony.”

They both nodded and lifted their hands to greet the crowds that were gathered along the Sacred Way to watch the Consualia procession.

The wagon they walked behind carried a scene meant to invoke a virtuous sense of pastoral bounty. Lepidus had a hand in designing it. The grain stalks artfully woven through a loom had barely lasted ten minutes before they began to work themselves loose. Antony had nearly been poked in the eye once and had to keep reminding himself not to walk too close to it.

“Well, you're in a mood,” he said through a strained smile.

Brutus finished his wave with a half-hearted flourish and let his hand drop. “I've a stack of reports back home predicting a grain shortfall by mid-February, and we're presiding over a ceremony for grain storage. Mood's not the half of it.”

He moved to fold his arms, but his mother's training took hold a second later. _A leader did not fold his arms in public_ , Antony could imagine her saying. _It looks insecure and standoffish._ Brutus sighed.

Antony said, not contrite but something approaching it: “Look, the Cicero thing. I just wanted to make sure he showed his face, is all.”

Brutus sounded baffled. “Why would you want that? If he doesn't show, then maybe we'll all be spared another Philippic—”

“Don't call them that,” he interrupted. “That's _his_ pet name for them, don't endorse it.”

“Fine. But if he doesn't show, then—”

“He'll show. He won't be able to resist the threat. Man's a habitual drinker of the Lethe, he forgets he's actually a coward every other day.”

Brutus shook his head but dropped the matter. They walked another hundred paces, but slowly. The pavers in this section of the Sacred Way needed replacing, and the grain float was bouncing too much over the uneven surface to safely go faster than a crawl.

“That reminds me – several senators have approached me in the recent days and demanded to know what you're up to, moving the Senate around the city like pieces on a game board.” He glanced over with a jaundiced expression. “Every day, Antony. Every day, I get questions.”

He considered this. “And what do you say?”

“The truth. I don't know.”

“So what's the problem?”

“Their very next question is almost always 'why don't you know' or 'why haven't you asked him'?”

“And? Why haven't you?”

“I'm asking you now.”

“Yes, but why wait until it's an issue, and you're annoyed with me?”

“Because I don't actually _want_ to know,” said Brutus, harried. “I've no doubt it's something insane and awful. Of course I can't say that to people, so I just end up blaming you.”

Antony shrugged. “Don't feel too guilty, everyone was going to blame me anyway.”

“Yes, because generally it's all your fault.”

“Brutus.” He turned and started walking backwards, so he could look at him squarely in the eye. “Do you want to know why I have been moving the Senate all over the city?”

Brutus walked a few paces, watching him. He had a strange, searching look in his eye, like he was reaching for a memory but not quite grasping it.

“No,” he said. Then immediately, grimacing: “Yes. You're not planning on assassinating Cicero, are you?”

“Oh, don't think I haven't thought of it.”

His shoulders fell in obvious relief. “Then – why?”

“Obfuscation,” said Antony, with greatly satisfied enunciation. He smiled at his co-consul and nearly backed into the grain float. He hastily turned and began walking normally again.

Meanwhile, Brutus waited for him to continue. When he didn't, he said, “Shockingly, that did not clarify the matter for me.”

“I keep moving the Senate, they start to think it's just me messing around, no big deal. Mm? And they let their guard down. Also, this way, Octavian's little band of freaks won't know which meeting is _the_ meeting.”

He paled with dread. “The meeting. What happens on—”

“And then,” continued Antony, wish obvious enjoyment, “when the Senate is called to convene at my custom-built worship site outside the pomerium—”

“Oh gods—”

Antony glanced at him. “Don't look so horrified. I'm doing this for you, you know.”

If they weren't in public, he could just tell, Brutus would be clawing at his hair in despair. “For me? I have told you a thousand times don't want to be—” He still couldn't say it aloud.

He waved off this over-wrought distress. “That's not what this is about. I'm going to get them to pass that damn land reform you've been whinging about since Aprilis.”

Brutus was rendered speechless; after a second, he shut his mouth and gazed.

Antony avoided his eye. He kept account on the distance between them and the grain float, lest the other man walk into it in his distraction.

When his nerves strained to breaking, Antony said, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Why should I,” said Brutus, continuing to watch him with eyes that had gone dark. “You're offering to put the Senate at swordpoint to pass my legislative package. From you, that's practically a declaration.”

“Has the Sacred Way somehow grown when I wasn't looking?” he demanded, craning his head to look ahead. “I feel like we've been walking forever.”

“If we were not currently surrounded by cheering citizens waving wheat stalks, I'd pin you against this float and take you until neither of us could shuffle so much as another foot,” said Brutus lowly.

Antony made the mistake of glancing over one more time. They both hurriedly looked away.

It was just as well it was Lepidus who had to perform the Consualia rites, and that all eyes were directed elsewhere. Anyone observing would have been greatly intrigued at the evident deepening of the consuls' feud; despite sitting close, they stiffly refused to look at one another or speak during the entire ceremony.  
  


* * *

  
Servilia stared the slobbering beast down. She said, slow and grave, “You will drop that wig this instant, or I shall have you strung up on a pig hook and your entrails drawn out through a narrow slit. And then your skin will be flayed and rendered and made into cheap sandals for the freedmen in my employ.”

Baccha hesitated as he dimly tried and failed to parse the domina's tone. In the end, his eternal optimism won the day, and he wagged his tail.

Servilia lifted her chin and drew in a breath, but the door swung wide with a crash and Brutus and Antony strode into the atrium.

“Brutus,” she said, “this animal of yours—”

Antony stalked ahead, rudely not even glancing at her. Her son lifted a hand but likewise did not stop.

“Apologies, Mother, but I cannot talk now,” he said tersely. “Urgent business to attend to – consular business. You understand – _down_ , Baccha. Sit. Stay. Farewell, Mother.”

Servilia stared after his departing figure. She looked at the dog, who sat fidgeting at the edge of the room. It looked back at her and whined.

“That better not be what I think it is,” she said to it.  
  


* * *

  
Brutus shoved Antony down atop his desk, scattering scrolls and sending wax tablets crashing to the floor. Antony grinned and used his legs to drag him close.

“Sure you want to do this here?” he said between hard kisses. “How will you ever get any work done again, remembering?”

“By now, I've learned to use sexual frustration as a source of energy,” said Brutus. He resisted Antony's pulling enough to lean heavily over his body a moment and reach to the front of his desk. His long fingers plucked at the main drawer. He fished out a tear-shaped bottle.

“Who keeps olive oil in his desk?”

“I get hungry, when it's late sometimes,” defended Brutus. “Are you complaining? Would you like me to use spit, like that time on our way to Cape Sounion?” Despite his words, he was already tipping the bottle and coating his fingers.

Antony grunted as he reached down between his legs. “You have to admit, it was memorable.” They hadn't even made it all the way off the road. Antony's back had bled a little from the brambles.

“Felt like I was chafed for days. Never again.”

“Don't say that,” warned Antony. “It makes me want to try and push you.”

“You would, too, wouldn't you. _Infuriating_ _man_ – ” He twisted his fingers and Antony's head fell back hard against the desk.

“Enough,” he groaned, impatiently pulling at Brutus's tunic. “Enough, enough—”

Brutus hurriedly positioned himself at his entrance. His first thrust rocked the desk back on two legs; he slammed his hands on the edges, bracing it back to the floor. Antony was no help, unaware of anything but the need to push back at him like a wild animal.

  
  


(In the hallway outside the dominus's study, Eleni paused and noted the distinctive knocking sound against the far wall. She pursed her lips, thought for a moment, and then turned to fetch an amphora from the kitchen. She prided herself on anticipating her domina's every need, and she had a feeling tonight the chief need would be wine.)

  
  


“Just – just think,” panted Brutus. “We could be doing this always. Always. Every day.”

“All day.”

“ _Yes_. Anything.” Brutus buried himself deep and fell forward to clasp his face and kiss him. “I'd have you on your knees every night,” he murmured into his lips. “If you would just—”

Antony dug his fingers into the flesh of his hips. He wished for a moment he had the long nails of a woman so that he could draw blood. “No,” he bit out, “Don't—”

Brutus paused and ducked down, rubbing his forehead along Antony's chest. His hair was damp with sweat; it tickled. He muttered, “Give it up, just give this all up, and we could—”

Antony shoved him back, and they both gasped with pain at the abrupt withdrawal. More accustomed than the other man to pain, he recovered first and was on his feet in the next second, hooking his ankle around Brutus's and knocking him to the floor. He was on him again instantly, knees straddling his hips.

Antony planted his hands on the floor on either side of his head and said clearly, “Shut up, Brutus.”

He sank back down on his cock. Brutus shut up.

Afterwards, they lay exhausted amid the wreckage of the desk. A stylus or something dug into Antony's shoulder blade, and the right side of Brutus's face was blackened with spilled ink. Antony stared at the ceiling and tried to get his breath back.

“Was this a mistake?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

Brutus slung a heavy arm around his waist and pressed his face into his neck. He mumbled, “Give me an hour, and I can probably go again.”

“Yeah, alright,” he said, and rolled over.  
  


* * *

  
It was much later, after they'd migrated to Brutus's bed, that Brutus asked him to stay.

It wasn't fair, how he asked; he was still half-draped over Antony from their third round, his fingers still idly playing with his own come inside him. It didn't sound like an invitation so much as a reminder. _Oh, by the way, you're staying the night._

Antony was exhausted and sore, but still he pushed back. Brutus's fingers slid deeper, and he shook his head, rubbing it dumbly against the mattress, trying to marshal his thoughts.

“We'll only argue,” he said. There. That sounded cogent.

“Surely it is better to argue a couple feet from one another,” said Brutus, removing his hand and moving to stroke himself; once, twice, ready, “than argue and be miserable from across the city?”

Brutus shifted and lined himself up again. Antony could only spread his legs a couple inches, thinking if the other man expected him to do much else, he was out of luck. He breathed out a long, unsteady breath as he was breached.

“Do you remember that time I tried to keep you open for me for an entire day and night?” asked Brutus, moving lazily in him. Antony groaned at the memory and did not answer. “Of course, I don't think my refractory period is nearly so great as it was then. I'd likely have to employ a tool of some kind—”

“Toy,” he grated out. “I don't understand how you can be – like this. And still so—”

Brutus bore down on his shoulders and drove himself in hard to the hilt, comprehensively shutting him up.

“Will you stay?” Brutus asked again, five, ten, fifty thrusts later. “Antony, will you stay?”

Yes, yes.

Yes.  
  


* * *

  
Antony rolled over and opened his eyes, and then shut them just as quickly. “Why,” he asked, tongue still thick with sleep, “do you look like you haven't slept at all?”

“Because I didn't sleep.” Brutus adjusted his pillow, but Antony could tell he was still lying there, watching from a scant three inches away.

He sighed. “Dare I ask what you did all night? You weren't obsessing over grain harvest reports or the land commission, were you? You need to learn to let things go at night. Clear your head.” He waved a lazy hand, and Brutus reached up and caught it. Antony cracked an eye open and looked at him.

“I didn't think about grain harvest reports, no,” said Brutus.

Antony, to his deep shock and displeasure, felt his cheeks warm slightly. He thought he should – do something, quick, to move the moment along. Reach for the other man's cock, or kiss him. Anything to shift that soft gaze or at least change it somehow.

However, he was still boneless and aching, and moving at all seemed like an awful lot of effort.

While he was contemplating this dilemma, Brutus tucked his captured hand beneath his own cheek, so that his lips brushed light kisses against the palm with every word he spoke. His voice was hushed.

“You know, just now, before you woke up – I was imagining we were someplace else entirely. Not in Rome. Not consuls. We were alone in a room somewhere far away—”

“Where?” asked Antony immediately.

Brutus made a considering noise. “Oh, I don't know. Doesn't really matter to me. Perhaps – Greece? A villa in Greece, would that do?”

“Rhodes,” decided Antony, getting into the game now. He turned to lie on his side, so they were nose-to-nose. “Make the fuckers cross the Aegean if they want to come bother us.”

Brutus's smile started on his face and spread to his voice. “Good thinking. All right. Rhodes – oh, do you remember, there was that quiet little swimming hole—”

He nodded. “That's where I take my evening swims, while you are pouring over some scroll or another.”

“Oh, no.”

Antony raised his eyebrows. He pushed up onto his elbow and loomed over the other man. “ _No_?”

“No,” said Brutus firmly. “Evenings are for socializing. I have strict rules in place to stop myself from obsessing over parchment and ink during the wrong hours.”

“Do you now?” Antony huffed a laugh. “Then I hardly recognize this new Brutus.” But his own words collided with the moment, his attention sharpening on the other man's face in the warm early morning light. His laughter faded. He looked down at him.

He tried to remember Brutus as he looked when he was younger and overlay the image upon this older face. He had been skinnier, sure, and his skin bore no lines but for the marks of Janus on either side of his mouth. More prone to smile and laugh, or fly into an almighty snit.

For years, Antony had been content to hold that face in his memory, pouring emotions on it that he could or would not apply to the man he knew in the present. To weld the two together now seemed to him a deeply dangerous act. Unwise, but when had that ever stopped him?

“What is it?” asked Brutus quietly.

“Just – we're in our forties and lying next to each other again. Never expected that.”

Brutus smiled, but there was a tinge of sadness to the expression, and his eyes slid away, concealing. “You're only thirty-nine,” he said lightly, addressing the coverlet more than Antony.

He blinked hard. “Gods, you're right,” he said, marveling. He tipped back against the pillows dramatically. “How long has this year been going on?” he shouted into the air. He laughed when Brutus frantically tried to shush him and would only consent to be silenced through a kiss.  
  


* * *

  
At a party following a play one evening in the run-up to Saturnalia, Octavian is said to have mentioned how deeply his father Julius Caesar had cherished the consul Antony as a friend during his life. He lamented the cheap price their society placed on loyalty and assured all who could hear that he never forget those who helped him.  
  


* * *

  
Before the Senate convened to discuss land reform once more, Cicero met Brutus across the street from Antony's painfully obvious trap of a worship site. The meeting must have looked to an outside observer like wartime treaty negotiation, for each was surrounded by a retinue of bodyguards.

Brutus took in Cicero's men and said only, “Is this really necessary?”

Cicero inclined his head. “Pure precaution. You cannot blame me for fearing for my life when the Senate is called to gather outside the pomerium, where Antony might carry a sword freely. Wild animals are nothing if not opportunistic.”

The consul's mouth flattened – disapproval of some kind, though Cicero could not be sure of its origin.

“One might question why you continue to bait someone you think of as a wild animal,” said Brutus.

Cicero noticed his tone, and his interest sharpened the way it often did in the middle of a trial, when he sensed a vulnerability in his opponent's argument. “Have you taken a side, then? At last?”

“I want to settle the land commission question,” he said, a little flatly. “Might we discuss the likelihood of that happening? You know – the actual business of the Senate, which you claim to feel so passionately about?”

This was the problem with men like Brutus who loved philosophy too much and never put their time and attention properly into the practical workings of the Senate. They approached policy debates as if there was a real chance of swaying votes through an ordered and clean presentation of ideas. But the dirty truth of politics was that everyone has always already made up their minds going in.

The Senate ran not on policy but personality; on points won and favors courted; above all, it ran on fear and shame. Bring shame to bear on enough men, and you can carry any motion.

Standing back and looking at the consul who had been supposed to liberate them all, Cicero found he pitied Brutus. He really did.  
  


* * *

  
The Senate gathered at last upon the site of his design, and his soldiers stood vigilant outside, waiting for his signal.

And Antony said:

“Before we turn to today's slated debate, I wished only to remind you all of another time in our city's recent history when the people were beset with economic woes, threatened with poverty, and a man went around the streets promising an easy cure to all their troubles. My fellow consul and I were not yet senators then, but no one forgets what Rome was like in the days of the Catiline crisis.

“Then, as today, one man stood before this body and offered up slander and his own desperate self-aggrandizement as solutions to the problems facing the Republic. Words, words, words.

“The Senate followed him – and, really, who could blame them? I certainly do not, despite how I personally suffered in the aftermath. Cicero, after all, is the most skilled orator of our time. No, I did not blame the Senate. But that was twenty years ago.

  
  


(Brutus split his attention between his co-consul's pacing figure and the soldiers at the entrances. He was not the only one aware of their presence. He felt a sick twisting in his stomach but let none of this show on his face.

“Do you trust me?” Antony had asked before they entered. His tone revealed nothing.

Brutus woke every morning in the past week to a bed that was both too big and too cold. Caught on the threshold between sleep and waking, he always fooled himself into thinking Antony would be there beside him.

He replied, “Ask for my trust, Antony, and you shall have it.”)

  
  


“Twenty years... long time. Time enough to look over the results of a career and conclude that Cicero's does not amount to much of anything but his own terror of irrelevancy and impotence. Words, words, words. What have his gained Rome?

“Look upon Cicero now. Daily we witness or hear of the brawling in the streets, the muggings, the beatings. The murders. And he _loves_ it. The man never feels more alive than when people are suffering from chaos sown by those wealthy enough to be insulated from its worst effects.

“Is this you reliving your glory days, Cicero? The people's misery propelled you into a consulship once before – it was the only way a man of such low beginnings could attain the office. I say you are using the same strategy you did back then – except now you wish to lift up another, this... grandson of a Thurian money-changer. And for what? To avoid taking any meaningful action that might move Rome forward?

“But that changes if the Senate moves past you to act. And I believe it will – the Senate will act. It must. Perhaps even today. Because every day is a new chance for us to recover our courage and start listening to some words that might actually lead somewhere.”

  
  


(Brutus could not help but tense; his eyes darted to the soldiers. Cicero likewise put his head back and watched the periphery. But after holding the floor for a moment longer, looking around the room – Antony only turned and took his seat. He indicated to the magistrate to begin proceedings, and a subtle breath was released collectively around the room.)  
  


* * *

  
Words, words, words: better than swords, they all agreed. But the Senate remained deadlocked.

Antony thought: I didn't make my move today. It is still open for use tomorrow. But then he thought of Brutus's relief in the chamber and cursed.  
  


* * *

  
“I wasn't even meant to be head priest,” said Octavian at a dinner, surrounded by prominent figures. “Did you all know that? My father had intended that honor for Mark Antony originally. They were close, once. Very close. Antony was trusted like no other. I'm sure Caesar thought his old friend would tend to his cult with all the focus and diligence he did his other great passions. I am perhaps not my father's first choice for flamen, but I hope that I can do him some small honor going forward. It is the least I can do, for the light Divus Julius has brought to my own life.”  
  


* * *

  
After weeks of silence, the consul Brutus addressed the Senate. He spoke for a mere three minutes, his words short and his arguments sharp, and finished with a warning: “I remind you all: inaction will not protect us.”

He resumed his seat, and the gathered senators shifted and murmured. Antony sat back on his wrists, put his foot up, and watched as Cicero rose to his feet.

And Cicero said:

“Members of the Senate, why is this my fate? I am obliged to point out our country has never had an enemy who has not made himself an enemy of mine first. I need mention no names; you remember the men for yourselves. One of them helped raise one of our fine consuls who sit before us....

“So why do I find myself again in this position? Why must I put the question to you all: were the valiant Trojans who manned the walls of their besieged city accused of _inaction_?

“Our honorable consul Brutus mistakes defense for idleness. We do not sit unmoved, but turn our shoulders against the encroaching wave, bracing the State against the insurgency of the masses who would devastate our treasuries and flood our streets.

“But perhaps we should not blame Brutus too severely. For he has had his head recently turned by one who glories in action for action's sake, one for whom no move is a bad move and any drunken stumble must be praised as forward progress. No, we should not blame Brutus for this creature's impulsiveness. After all, it is only natural that a man be indulgent to his new bride.

  
  


(Brutus's expression did not change, but his head twitched a little to the side, as if he wasn't sure he had heard correctly.

Antony's body locked up. He could not move even to breathe.)

  
  


“Let us have it in the open, at last. We have all heard the rumors, the mocking verse in the taverns. We've all seen the drawings in the streets. And I have tried in vain to be fair to Antonius – I have made my remarks in the spirit of respect and fairness, as all can attest. Surely this is the greatest mark of moderation – to protest about Antonius and yet refrain from abuse!

“But what is left of Rome, Antonius, owes its final annihilation to yourself. In your home everything has always had a price: and a truly sordid series of deals have there been brokered. The laws you try to pass are always in your own interest. You are an augur and yet never take the proper auspices; you are a consul, yet you repeatedly delay or block other officials from exercising their constitutional rights. You are a drink-sodden, sex-ridden wreck.

“In spite of all this, I have restricted myself to only solemn complaints concerning the state of our Republic. I have refrained from personal attack – today I will show him what a favor I have before now done him.

“I will not address him as a consul, for he has never treated me with the respect accorded to a former consul. Besides, he is no true consul. He does not live like one; he does not work like one. And so I will speak plainly, as one talking of a common brute.

“The problem began early enough, with this one. Let us begin at the beginning: your bankruptcy in early adolescence – do you remember that, with your wine-blurred memory? Your father's fault, you would say. Certainly; and what a truly filial self-defense! We begin to see why you would deny Gaius Octavian Caesar his own filial respects. But, Antonius, you cannot blame your father for your next actions.

“At first you were a public prostitute, with a fixed price. Quite a high one, to be fair—”

The consul bench tipped backwards as Antony lunged from it. His hand flew to the pommel of his blade.

“Antony, stop!”

No.

Not now, Brutus.

Not now.

He'd advanced to the first row. In his mind's eye, the man was already dead and decapitated. Cicero appeared to keep himself upright and in place through sheer stubbornness, but his face was stiff with terror. His thin chest heaved.

“That,” said Brutus: closer now and voice hard, “ _was_ an order.”

All eyes in the chamber were on Antony. His limbs shook with rage. He felt the darkness leaping within him, howling to be let loose.

The cruelty of Brutus's timing barely registered, not next to the choice before him: either disobey and negate all he had worked for this past year, or stand down and swallow the insult. He was well-practiced at the latter. He thought it should be easier by now.

“You have made a choice,” he said to Brutus without looking at him.

Reedy but firm, he replied: “I am aware.”

Cicero breathed raggedly. His eyes, half-petrified and half-intent, darted between the two consuls. Antony looked at him and thought: some day. Some day soon.

His hand fell away from the hilt of his blade and swung, empty, to his side. Silent as he was, there was still never any declaration more loud.  
  


* * *

  
Senators scattered from the scene and word spread out from the site. The news was conveyed through terse exchanges and whispers, and then, like an avalanche tipping over a great ledge, through shouts and rising panic. _King-monger_ was the word on every tongue.

Antony, king-monger: when Caesar refused, he murdered him and went searching for another. And he has found him, in the very one who would have been praised as a killer of kings, like his ancestors long ago.

The city had been roiling with unrest for months. Now, with rumors of an approaching food shortage circulating through crowds already caught between a do-nothing Senate, swaggering groups of armed soldiers, and an insurgent crowd of men preaching sedition, the streets boiled over.

People knocked over wagons and broke their furniture into kindling to building a bonfire in the Forum. Shopkeepers closed their doors and sat clutching clubs and knives in the darkness, waiting. Young men raced through the streets, yelling at the people to join them; to defend the Republic; the consuls; the Senate, or to tear all the same down.  
  


* * *

  
Caught in the crush of people pushing into the Forum, the newsreader was stabbed in the thigh by persons unknown. The wound was not fatal, however.  
  


* * *

  
“You should leave the city,” Cassius said to Cicero, as they hid out in the empty pews of the Curia.

Cicero drew his toga tightly around his shoulders. “Why should I be the one to leave? I have revealed Antony for what he is – I have never been more beloved by the people.”

“The people love you,” agreed Cassius, gazing down at the trembling figure, who suddenly looked all his years. “And they will love you to death. They'll tear your limbs from your body and not even realize they are doing it.”  
  


* * *

  
In his mother's house, Octavian listened to the news and, while Atia and Octavia exclaimed in shock, went to his desk and calmly wrote to his friend Agrippa, waiting outside the city with the salvaged remnants of his Macedonian legions.

The letter was quick to write and even quicker to read; it merely said _now_.  
  


* * *

  
“Will you stay? Please just stay? Antony,” said Brutus, as Antony fastened his sword belt over his tunic. “Let the guards handle it.”

He paused and reached for his wine. He drained it in one quick shot and gestured to the window with the empty cup. “Do you hear that? That is not something a few guards can just _handle_. That is a full-scale riot. They'll burn down half the city if they are not stopped.”

“All the more reason for someone sober to tend to it. You've been drinking since we got back to the house.”

Any other day, Antony would have replied _and whose fault is that?_ But he had no words left in him. There was a vast blankness occupying his mind: inhospitable to human life. The kind of wasteland they call a solitude, and for good reason. To speak would be to attempt to cross it. So Antony remained silent and swung his red army mantle over his shoulders. He turned to leave.

“You asked me,” Brutus said, just before he reached the door, “you asked me, weeks ago, why I wanted you to join the Liberators.” He paused. “After today, I think you deserve the truth.”

The words took a few seconds to filter through his wine-soaked brooding, and then his brow creased with confusion. He turned and looked wordlessly back at him.

Brutus reached out and set his hands upon his desk, as if he needed the support. He met Antony's eyes with difficulty.

“When we decided we were going to do it – I, I knew it was going to be an end of some kind. Either we'd fail, in which case we'd likely die, or we'd succeed and,” he breathed out a slight laugh and shook his head with bitter irony. “And we'd be _free_.”

Antony said nothing. He could only hitch up a corner of his mouth slightly at the (ever so mockable) idea.

Brutus's bright eyes caught on him, and all self-deprecation drained from his face, leaving only grief in the tidal path. He looked down. It took him a few moments to gather his thoughts again.

“Either way, it was going to be an end of some kind,” he repeated. He was hoarse, like he'd been talking for hours rather than seconds. “And either way, I wanted you by my side when it happened, at the end.” His eyes swung up, lit upon Antony for a helpless second before veering off like he couldn't bear it. “Because – I missed you. That's all. People keep telling me how honorable I am and Marcus, I can't bear the word any longer. Because when it mattered—”

Antony stared. Brutus shut his eyes.

“I was selfish,” he said simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of Cicero's last Philippic was actual-Cicero because I simply do not have it in me to come up with new horrible things to say to Antony; I was working off a translation by Michael Grant.


End file.
